Tailor Made
by coolbyrne
Summary: The clothes make the man, but Jane Rizzoli makes the button-down shirt.


TITLE: Tailor Made

AUTHOR: coolbyrne

RATING: T

SUMMARY: The clothes make the man, but Jane Rizzoli makes the button-down shirt.

A/N: My beta reader and wife is all about Angie Harmon in a button-down shirt. So I thought I'd write this little snippet for her.

...

_The Thomas Mason Royal Oxford._

_Named after entrepreneur Thomas Mason. _

_Built one of England's first fabric factories in Leeds, in 1796. _

_Still considered one of the finest tailored shirts to this day._

_This shirt in particular sported an Italian cut collar, though a good tailor could fasten any number one might choose._

_Rounded split cuffs with double buttons gave the shirt a softer line, even if the wearer did deem them "fussy"._

_A plackett down the front gave it a formal look that offset the casual cut._

_A 120-thread count that weaved together a fabric so soft it practically caressed anyone fortunate enough to own one. _

_The company was sold to the Albini Group in 1992 and has been based in Italy ever since, where it still adheres to the same meticulous standards set by Mr. Mason over 200 years ago._

Maura knew all of these things, and had been trying for the better part of the evening to use them as a mantra, a way to distract her mind from something that was much more complex than basic facts. It was a failing exercise, because while her mind focussed on the flare of the collar, her lips wanted to do nothing more than travel down the long column of throat exposed by the dangerously low cut. Her brain was content to appreciate the craftsmanship in the immaculate cuffs, but her eyes were saboteurs, skimming back and forth along the lean forearms, watching the extensor digiti minimi muscle flex as Jane lifted a beer bottle to her lips. But surprisingly, the largest distraction was something that wasn't readily seen.

_It was that damn thread count_, Maura realized. The fine weave of cotton fibres that clung to Jane's frame, all curves and angles, like an embrace. She could almost feel the brush of cloth against her own skin, imagining it as nothing more than a simple barrier between them. If she were honest, she had been imagining it in the shop since she'd first slipped her hand underneath the hem. The tailor had presented it with a flourish and waited for her inevitable approval. The feel was almost erotic, the lightness of the cotton dusting feather-like across her fingertips. She bought it on the spot, never telling Jane the cost.

It was going to be her undoing, because now all she could think about was getting her hands underneath the white cotton barrier. Her fingers itched at the mere thought of Jane's warm skin under her palms as they moved up to cup the satin curves of the beige bra that would coyly show itself whenever Jane moved a certain way. Or would the taut torso be cool to the touch? Would the skin tremble under her fingertips? Her mind imagined grabbing the shirt by the open collar and tearing the soft fabric away from those wonderful breasts, though she knew the mother of pearl buttons and double stitching would prevent such a visceral thrill. Instead, she would be forced into a more measured removal of the garment, be required to slowly release the fasteners through the button holes, one by one. She counted three seductively undone, leaving four that needed dexterous attention. Gripping her wine glass tightly, her fingers shook at the thought of nimbly making short work of the impediments. How she would slide her hands up to the prominent clavicle and slip the garment off slender shoulders. Or maybe she could find a way to take Jane while she was still in the shirt. _Yes_, she thought as she licked dry lips. The bra would need a front clasp. She quickly re-wrote the image in her mind.

"Whoa, slow down there."

Her head jerked back, startled out of her reverie. "What?"

Jane swiveled on the stool to face her. Once Frost and Korsak left the Dirty Robber, the two women had moved to the bar, under the pretense of letting a larger group have their booth, but Maura knew it was really so Jane could watch the game on the TVs overhead. "How much wine have you had already?"

Maura pursed her lips and tilted her head. "This is my third. Why?"

"You're looking a little flushed," Jane teased as she pulled the wine glass out of her hand.

She turned on her seat and tried not to notice how her legs, demurely held together as dictated by manners and her pencil skirt, were now bracketed on either side by Jane's lanky limbs, splayed open and trapping Maura between them. "No, I'm fine. It's the shirt."

Jane blinked at the admission. "Sorry?"

Maura fought the impulse to reach forward and stroke the collar for fear of setting it alight with her touch. "I mean, I was just noting you were wearing the shirt I bought you."

The brunette took a pull from her bottle, gazing over the rim. "Don't gloat too much, but it does feel pretty good. And, it's my lucky shirt."

Maura's eyes were locked on Jane's throat as the cold drink slid down the long esophagus. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we just cracked the Strachan case, didn't we?" The blonde nodded and Jane continued, "And I was wearing it when we broke the Coyle case, too. I seem to get lucky in this shirt." She smirked and took another drink.

Maura's laugh seemed to sweep aside her nerves and she indulged her desire to touch the fabric. Paying particular attention to the craftmanship of a button hole, she caressed the stitching and pretended she wasn't aware how the backs of her fingers brushed across the detective's collarbone. "And just imagine, the night's not over yet."

...


End file.
